Shaman's Etched Harbinger of Vision

Shaman's Etched Harbinger of Vision rests in my palm, a small relic of dusk-light I lift from a dust-filled Forgotten Market. It is hardly larger than a closed fist, its surface carved from weathered bone or horn, etched runes spiraling along the edge like a map of vines. The metal core glints with a soft ember-like glow, a delicate filigree of obsidian and brass that catches the eye with a quiet insistence. The texture is cool and smooth where the wear of countless hands has rubbed the edges, then rough and granular along a shallow groove that travels from haft to tip, as if the maker sought to press memory into the touch. In light it shifts from copper to emerald, and when you tilt it, small facets reveal a tiny lens, as if the item itself is a listening eye. The lore behind it is whispered rather than proclaimed—that a wandering Shaman, long ago, forged this piece from beetle-shelled bone and moon-iron to host visions that come not from dreams but from the echoes of the world’s heartbeat. Carved runes promise guidance, not domination; the shard is said to open a traveler’s perception, letting the bearer notice hidden pathways, sigils on ancient walls, and the prescience needed to avoid ambush or misstep. Some claim it is linked to a lineage of heralds who walked between seasons, a conduit to the spirits who watch the plains as the sun bleaches the grasses. In practice, its use in the field is intimate rather than theatrical. When worn as a pendant or cradled in a gloved palm, the Harbinger hums with a cordial, breathy resonance that speaks in the same cadence as a drumbeat on a long march. It does not cast dazzling spells so much as align a line of sight: trails become distinct; scent markers and pawprints of long-vanished beasts reappear as faint dust in the air; and when a hazard approaches—an unstable cliff, a hidden trap—the gemstone core shivers, and the vision becomes momentary but precise, enough to choose a safer route or pivot a plan. The shard’s presence shapes a traveler’s choices in a larger story—one where caravans move through deserts and forests with a sense of impending, narratable danger. Market talk softens the edge of legend into practice. Saddlebag Exchange, the roving tally of coins and lore, lists it at a price that makes sense in a world that prizes foresight; a handful of gold, perhaps a touch more in silver, depending on the day’s mood and the memory of the last buyer who carried it. A careful buyer learns to bargain with the patter of haggling and the memory of the shopkeeper who swore the last caretakers paid dearly for safe passage. I walk away with the Harbinger snug in its worn leather pouch, the road ahead suddenly legible—the world pliant enough to be read, the risks and routes stitched into the pulse of the item. The journey continues, and the vision remains—not a spell but a steady invitation to see farther and walk with a quieter step through the world’s shifting daylight.